


Found in the Garden

by flamethrower



Series: Field, Garden, Oasis [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, GFY, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outside is his least favorite place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found in the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> My usual policy is not to provide warnings (books don't come with them!), but since this is a Gen-rated fic, I'll be kind. See the end of the fic for content warnings.

Obi-Wan Kenobi shuffled the last stack of flimsiplast, gave the pile a quick flick with his fingers to make sure of the order, and placed it into the storage drawer that hung open beside him.  The machine inside took over, sorting the ’plast in the time it took him to blink, arranging it so that the viewers would be able to find each image when needed.  Work was done for the day.  Unfortunately.

His hands ached, his shoulders were screaming, and it seemed like he always frowned, now.  But:  He wasn’t outside.  Bless the gods for that—or whatever had been looking out for him that day. 

He refused to consider the Force any longer, even when it prodded him with its insistent fingers.  Being an office flunky wasn’t the greatest destiny, but the job kept him away from the plants, from the earth, and he was grateful, even if he still looked like he was dying.  Keeping the AgriCorps’ paperwork pristine meant he kept his mind too busy to consider such things, which was exactly what Obi-Wan wanted.

Of course, this particular job meant that he never left the planet, either.  Some nights he found himself dreaming of Mon Calamari, and woke with intense longing in his heart and tears drying on his face. 

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d taken a moment to pleasure himself, and what nearly-fourteen-year-old boy skipped out on masturbating?

Obi-Wan kept his day simple.  Get up.  Shower.  Nod politely at whoever spoke to him in greeting (and strangely, there was quite a bit of that).  Download the feeds for the day, sort the requests sent in by distant posts, and make sure they got to the appropriate person to be answered.  There was another student who handled the comms, which made Obi-Wan happy, because he did not want to talk.  To anyone.  Ever, if at all possible.  Speaking always felt like he was trying to force words past a great rock in his throat.  He stuttered now, too, and that made him feel more awkward than ever.  He spent most of his day at his station, and was so efficient that a job that had once taken three Corps members now just required him. 

He didn’t need the Force.  Didn’t need it.  Doing just fine without it.

Lunch was the only break he took.  He’d select some piece of fruit and go find a silent corner of the complex, and every time the quiet roared in his ears, so did the menacing whine of a red-bladed lightsaber, the thrashing hum as two lightsabers collided, and the soft whisper of pain that had ended Obi-Wan’s life just as assuredly as it had ended his new Master’s.

He didn’t even know the name of the man who’d killed his Master.  Who’d stared at him with ice-blue eyes, taking in Obi-Wan’s angry tears, stubborn set of his jaw, and the lightsaber gripped in his hand.

He did remember the horrible, pressing sensation that had sent him tumbling head over ass into a rock, his last view being the rock’s finely grained surface just before his forehead connected.  When Obi-Wan awoke, there was a bloodstain on the rock, his head was pounding, their lightsabers were gone, and his Master was still dead.

His apprenticeship had lasted three days and six hours.

Obi-Wan had been so stunned, so shamed at failing his new Master that badly, that he’d never spoken of their burgeoning relationship.  Even if he had been taken as a Padawan, who the hell would want him?  No one had wanted him in the first place.

 

_“For shame, child–why did you choose to come here?”  
“I didn’t choose it,” Obi-Wan said, trying to be deferential despite the first pang of hope that made his heart beat faster.  “I wasn’t wanted.”_

_“What a load of bollocks,” the blond-haired Master had said in response, astounding Obi-Wan.  “This is why I avoid the Temple like it’s the gods’ own plague.  They all must’ve gone blind to send someone like you out to the Corps.”_

 

No; no, thank you.  Better to hide amongst the ’plast and the paper and the reports, to be useful in what little way he could before the gaping wound in his heart caught up to him at last.

He hoped it wouldn’t take much longer.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

Obi-Wan was astounded to find the Corps Master for Bandomeer waiting at his workstation the next morning.  He bowed in greeting, which was something the other Corps members didn’t do, but he couldn’t break himself of the habit.  It was yet another thing that marked him, set him apart—their lack of formality, his inability to be anything but. 

“Good morning, Obi-Wan.  Did you sleep well?” Master Drayson asked. 

He hesitated a moment before nodding.  It was a lie, but there wasn’t much the old Master could do for him, anyway.  Obi-Wan knew he had dark circles under his eyes that never went away, and he had three dorm mates who could tell anyone who asked that Obi-Wan Kenobi’s sleep habits were abysmal.

“I know this is unusual, but you have a visitor this morning,” Master Drayson said, after giving Obi-Wan a piercing, if kind, look.  “Sasha will cover for your morning work, so you needn’t worry about that.”

Confused and not sure what to do, Obi-Wan nodded again, tilting his head in bewilderment.

Master Drayson seemed to sigh.  “Ah, lad.  Here’s hoping some good will come of this visit.  He’s out in the western garden, probably already up to his elbows in the soil.  Tall human man, long hair.  Believe me, you can’t miss him.”

Obi-Wan stopped breathing for a moment.  Outside.  He hadn’t been outside in months.

Drayson gave him an encouraging smile.  “Go on, then.  Don’t be rude, now.”

Considering how Obi-Wan still held rudeness as a high offense, the old Master’s words got him moving when little else shy of an electrical prod would have.  He ran his hands over his tunic, glad he’d put on one of the new, charcoal gray tunics that fit.  Greeting a visitor in Initiates’ Whites might give the wrong impression, and they were stained so badly now that calling them white was a stretch, anyway.

Obi-Wan paused in the doorway, eyes closed, trying to settle his jarred nerves.  He would deal with this visitor (what a strange concept!) and return to his work, and the steady, unchanging nature of filing the ’plast that detailed new species and growth charts and rain schedules and animal birthings would soothe him.

He walked forward, and the glass doors opened smoothly to allow him through.  For a moment, his eyes protested the bright sunshine that assaulted his corneas.  He blinked and sighed, feeling like some ridiculous cave monster that had to be chased out of its burrow with threats and brushfire.

The western garden was one he’d liked, and one he’d made sure never to work in.  It was a chaotic mix of wildflowers, cultivated vegetables, and the occasional short and squat citrus tree.  Instead of rows, the garden had been tilled in a circle.  The circle-within-circle-within-circle pattern was nice, and felt better than the typical striped rows that ran endlessly across a landscape.

Obi-Wan’s visitor was not hard to find at all.  Even kneeling on the ground, the man’s broad back was visible above the plants.  His hair was bronze in the sun, pulled back in two different tails.  Obi-Wan tilted his head again, watchful, cautious, before curiosity drove him forward.

Up close, the older man’s face was tanned by the sun and slightly lined, but there was kindness written into his skin.  Obi-Wan relaxed just a fraction, and waited to be acknowledged.

After a few minutes, when the man showed no signs of stopping his work in the soil, Obi-Wan realized he was going to have to speak.  Balls. 

“H-h-hello,” he said, and winced at the cracked stutter that emerged.

“Good morning,” the stranger replied, looking over at him with a smile.  Despite Obi-Wan’s last growth spurt, he was still barely a head taller than his kneeling visitor.  Master Drayson hadn’t been kidding about his visitor’s height.  “I was beginning to wonder if a feline had stolen your tongue.”

He shook his head, received nothing but polite silence, and sighed.  “No, s-sir.”

The older man patted the dirt.  “Have a seat.”

Obi-Wan kneeled on the ground, all-too-aware that he was surrounded by greenery.  Without much thought, he tucked his hands into his sleeves and hugged his arms to his chest. 

A slightly raised eyebrow told Obi-Wan that his gesture had been noticed.  “You don’t talk much, do you?”

 _It hurts and I stutter,_ he thought.  Out loud he said, “I-it makes m-me uncomfortable.”

“I imagine you didn’t always stutter, either,” his visitor continued, pinching off a nearby _cheepa_ leaf.  Obi-Wan said nothing as the overpowering smell of the minty plant filled the air.  It was the truth, after all, and his guest didn’t seem to need an answer. 

The stranger stuffed the bright green leaf into his mouth, chewing once before he grimaced in distaste and swallowed the leaf.  “Bitter.”

“You’re supposed t-to let it s-s-sit, first,” Obi-Wan said, as the man broke off another leaf.  “When the air s-smells less m-minty, you c-can eat it.”

“Is that right, now?  Hmm.”  The man let the leaf he held in his long fingers twist in the breeze for a few minutes, and Obi-Wan was glad for the pause in conversation.  He hadn’t spoken so much in months, and the sound of his own voice was strange.  It was different, deeper and softer than he was used to.  Somehow, by maintaining his silence, Obi-Wan had missed the warning cracks and booms of adolescent male human voice changes.  No great loss, that.

This time there was no grimace of disgust, and when the man offered him a _cheepa_ leaf of his own, Obi-Wan accepted it, his fingers just peeking out from the edge of his tunic sleeve.  The scent of mint struck his sinuses, and he breathed in, aware on some level that _cheepa_ was valued both for its flavor and its calming properties.  “Th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  The man sat back on his haunches, regarding Obi-Wan with something that looked like bemused curiosity.  “I’m surprised you haven’t yet asked me anything.”

Still holding the leaf in his fingers, Obi-Wan thought about his reply.  “I…s-suppose you’ll g-get to it?”  _I have no idea what to ask you because I have no idea who you are, or why you’re here._

The man smiled, as if Obi-Wan’s answer had merit.  “I suppose so.  Come, work in the plants with me.”

Obi-Wan crushed the _cheepa_ leaf in surprise, shaking his head.  “I-I-I c-c-c-can’t.”

“Sure you can,” his guest said.  “It’s as easy as touching them.  They’re not too shy to speak into the Force about what they need.”

“No, _I c-c-can’t_!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, and then bit his lip.  Yelling at one’s elders was also not appropriate.  “Th-they d-d-die,” he tried to explain, wondering how someone had come to visit him without knowing of his nightmarish reputation with the plants.  “I d-d-don’t w-w-want them t-to.”

“That sounds horrible,” the man said, his blue eyes full of sympathy.  “Would you show me?” he asked.  “I promise you, I can heal any damage you might inflict.”

Obi-Wan thought about the request, while his right hand was busy mashing the _cheepa_ leaf into a minty pulp.  No one had ever offered something like that before, leaving Obi-Wan to fix the damage on his own before it had finally been realized the damage _could not_ be fixed—at least, not by Obi-Wan. 

What left him feeling sick to his stomach was the realization that he was going to have to touch the Force, and the Force was going to prod him with those damned insistent fingers again, telling him a truth that was not a truth at all…

“Obi-Wan?” the man said his name gently. 

“O-o-okay,” Obi-Wan said, if only to get it over with, to go back to his flimsiplast and his nice sterile office and duck his head behind the stacks, where no one expected him to talk and no one asked him to touch living things.  He uncrossed his arms and reached out with his left hand, his lips pressed to a thin, bloodless line.  There was a rikashi bush next to the _cheepa_ , and he brushed his fingers along the curled red leaves.  He took a deep breath and called upon the Force.

The rikashi responded eagerly, as the plants always did, which made him want to scream in frustration.  He talked to the bush, which gushed enthusiastically about water and wind and warm earth in impressions and feelings.  As the bush spoke, the leaves began to wither, losing their delicate curl and drooping towards the ground—and all the while, the Force was babbling in the back of his head.

Obi-Wan jerked his hand back, heedless of the tears that had formed and fallen from his eyes.  “S-s-s-s…”  He gave up, pressing his hand over his mouth. 

“I do see,” the man murmured, brushing his hands over the rikashi’s dying leaves.  To Obi-Wan’s intense relief, they began to regain their reddish hue, curling up with health once more.  “How anyone could have misunderstood this is what I _don’t_ understand.”

Obi-Wan rubbed the cheepa leaf remnants off on his trousers, which only increased the scent of mint in the air.  He was going to reek of _cheepa_ for hours.  “S-s-see wh-what?”

The man didn’t answer him right away, but he seemed to be thinking, not ignoring the question.  Obi-Wan sat in the dirt, waiting, patient because he had nothing else to do.

He jumped when the man’s deep, rumbling voice broke the morning silence.  “You remember Master Yoda’s teachings on the Force, I’m sure.”  Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly; the subject change had caught him off-balance.  “One of Master Yoda’s basic lessons is that the Force does not create life.  Instead, life creates the Force.  Life, like this,” the man’s long fingers brushed the rikashi leaves again, “makes the Force stronger.  Makes _us_ stronger,” he said, and looked at Obi-Wan.  “Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard.  “N-n-no, sir.”

“It’s all right.  It’s…”  The man hesitated, sighing.  “The lesson is simple at first, but there are times, like now, when it can be harsh.  The plants are responding to you because they sense your need, Obi-Wan.  They’re trying to help you.”

 _What?!_   Obi-Wan shook his head.  “H-how does d-dying h-h-help me?”  _It just makes me feel worse!_

“They’re not trying to die.  Not on purpose, at any rate.”  The man gave Obi-Wan another sympathetic look.  “They wither because they sense the need in you, and try to fulfill it, but your need is more dire than the plants have the sense to realize, and they give until they give too much.”  When Obi-Wan only stared at him in dismay, the man reached out and put a very large, very warm hand on his shoulder.  “You’re psychically bleeding out, Obi-Wan, from the bond you had with your Master.  The training bond had enough time to form, but not settle, and when Feemor died…”

For a moment, Obi-Wan could only stare at the other man, stunned.  His eyes huge, he asked, “H-h-h-how d-do y-y-you k-know th-th-that?”  No one had ever even guessed that he’d had a bond with Master Feemor.  The assumption had been made that the Jedi Master, a regular face among the AgriCorps workers due to his inborn love of plants, had been accompanying the new Corps worker to the complex.  Obi-Wan had never bothered to correct the belief.

“It isn’t an easy thing to see, since it was such a young bond,” his visitor said softly.  “But when you use the Force, such as when you spoke to the plant, the bond is visible—because the life energy in the plant tries to heal it.”

Obi-Wan wrapped his hands together in his lap, horrified all over again.  “S-so wh-what d-do I do?”

“It will take a Healer to repair the damage, so a trip to Coruscant lies in your immediate future,” the man said, pleased by Obi-Wan’s question.  “Also, you’re a Padawan, so you will likely stay there until a new Master can be found—”

“NO!”  Obi-Wan was on his feet without even realizing he’d moved.  He shook his head violently.  “N-no!” he repeated.  “I-I’m n-n-not a P-P-Padawan!”

His antics earned him nothing more than a mild look from his visitor.  “No matter how short the apprenticeship, you were taken as a Padawan before your thirteenth birthday.  That makes you a Padawan, Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, fighting tears of frustration and anger.  “You d-d-don’t understand.  I-It’s m-m-my f-fault he’s d-d-dead!”

The big man sighed.  “No, Obi-Wan.  It isn’t your fault.”  And then he said something that made Obi-Wan’s head spin.  “It’s my fault.”

“Wh-wh-what?”  Obi-Wan hesitated, confused.  “B-but y-you w-w-weren’t th-there!  Y-you…c-can’t…”

His visitor offered Obi-Wan a slight, self-deprecating smile.  “Oh, but it _was_ my fault.  If I had done my duty years ago, Feemor would be alive.  Instead, I ignored the Code, and the Force, and let a Darkened Jedi go free.”

 _Darkened Jedi?  Feemor?_ “Who are you?” Obi-Wan asked in a whisper, too focused on the man before him to realize that for the first time in months, he hadn’t stuttered at all.

“I’m Qui-Gon Jinn,” the man said, and Obi-Wan froze.

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, whose second Padawan had been Xanatos.  There wasn’t a child in the creche who didn’t know those names, for the tale of Xanatos’s fall had become part of their teachings on pride and arrogance.  Master Jinn, who was also the teacher of Knight Feemor, a farmer and firm supporter of the AgriCorps for all he spent much of his time working Outer Rim missions for the Council.

Obi-Wan had gotten Jinn’s first Padawan killed. 

He spun in place, so fast that his left arm knocked a fat yellow citrus fruit from its branch and sent it flying.  Obi-Wan ran, the ground blurring beneath his feet from Force-enhanced speed, or tears.  Maybe both.  He knocked into the edge of one of the sliding doors when it didn’t slide open quickly enough, wrenching his shoulder.  His booted feet slid on the floor with a squeal before he caught his balance once more.  Sasha had a shocked look on her face, all he saw of her as he dashed by his work station. 

Obi-Wan had no idea where he was going, but his feet seemed to know the way, and when he found one of his silent, abandoned areas of the complex, he fell to his knees.  He wrapped his arms around his chest, his forehead resting on the floor.  He could hardly breathe.  His mind was filled with a maelstrom of grief and guilt; dimly, he was aware that he was making a noise that sounded like the keening of an injured wild animal.

 _No no no no,_ he moaned, the moment he felt those large hands come to rest on his back.  _No Temple, no Healers!  Just let me die here!_  It would balance out what he’d cost the universe with Feemor’s death.

 _That is the most ridiculous idea of balance I’ve ever heard,_ Jinn replied, and there was no mockery in his tone, just honest puzzlement.  _Everything happens for a reason, Obi-Wan.  You must trust the Force._

 _The Force LIES!_ Obi-Wan shouted back, all of the frustrated anger welling up and out with the words he had never dared to say to another living soul.  Then he was horrified, and couldn’t stop the sob that erupted from his throat.

 _Oh, little one,_ Jinn murmured, and he felt a surprising amount of sadness from the Jedi Master.  The hands on his back touched him, soothing and warm, and tension seemed to melt from his bony frame.  _When did you lose your faith?_   Obi-Wan felt the gentlest touch on his shields, like a gossamer brush.  _Show me, please?_

Obi-Wan drew in harsh breaths, thinking about the request, but in truth he would have been hard-pressed to deny the Jedi Master anything.  In those few moments he had felt more at ease, more at peace, than he could ever remember.  With a shudder, he opened his shields.

 

                                    ****    ****    ****    ****

 

 _What kind of Master would want a scrawny thing like you, anyway?_ Bruck laughed as Davrin shoved him against the bank of lockers.  _You can’t even fight back!_

 _Because I’m not supposed to,_ Obi-Wan retorted, holding onto his temper with both hands.  Blood was tricking down the back of his neck from the cut Davrin’s first shove had given him.  _And the three of you aren’t worth fighting._   Especially since we’re supposed to be allies, not enemies, he thought.  Not that the reminder would have done any good.  For some reason, Bruck Chun had decided he hated Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Obi-Wan didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it but endure.

Aalto, Bruck’s other partner in crime, grinned.  _Can’t, you mean, Oafy-wan.  Hah!_

With one final shove from Davrin, who was built like a house even at the age of eleven, the three wandered away, still firing taunts over their shoulders.  Obi-Wan slid down the bank of lockers, relieved that Aalto hadn’t decided to try punching him in the crotch again.  At least no one else had witnessed this altercation.  Most of the time, Obi-Wan was confronted when he was alone, and Bruck had witnesses.  Bruck, Aalto, and Davrin got off; Obi-Wan usually wound up with evening detention.  Or worse.

He reached for the Force, hoping to soothe his head, which was starting to ache.  The cut wasn’t bad, and would heal on its own.  He was _not_ going to the Healers, who always wanted to know what happened and then didn’t believe him anyway.  Almost no one did, anymore.  Bruck Chun was an expert at avoiding trouble.  Obi-Wan seemed to excel at finding it.

The Force came to his call, and he wrapped it himself in its embrace, similarly to the way his little shadow Bant sometimes would when the assault had been particularly foul.  She believed him—she’d witnessed some of the bullying first-hand, when Bruck thought no one had seen.  Not that having a witness of his own helped his cause.  Bant was too young to hold much sway with the other creche Masters.

 _Jedi_ , the Force whispered to him, and the ache in his head eased. _Knight._

Obi-Wan sighed.  There was that, and he believed.  He would be twelve soon.  It couldn’t be that much longer before a Master of his own came and removed him from this hell.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

 _You fight with anger,_ Master Windu told him, glaring disapproval at Obi-Wan.

 _Yes, Master,_ said Obi-Wan, because what else could he say?  Only against Chun, and he tried hard not to?  That would go over about as well as a parade float filled with rocks instead of air.  _I’m sorry, Master._

 _You will never be a Padawan unless you learn to master your temper, Initiate,_ Master Windu told him, and then moved on to Bruck to give the other boy his post-training criticism. 

Obi-Wan shook his head and went to the locker room off of the training hall, the better to shower and change before Bruck could arrive.  He didn’t want to hear Bruck receive yet more praise.  It was all he ever seemed to hear Chun get, and he was tired of it.  He had patience, yes, but Force, he was twelve years old, and he had limits! 

 _How the hell am I surrounded by Knights and Masters, and none of them seem to know what Bruck is really like?_ he wondered, turning on the water as hot as he could stand it.  The bullying wasn’t just for Obi-Wan, anymore; Bruck had turned his sights on anyone who was over the age of twelve.  Maybe Bruck was motivated by fear of not being chosen himself, but he still had at least six months longer than the rest of his targets.

 _Do they know?_   Obi-Wan scrubbed soap through his hair, which was getting far too long, but he didn’t want to cut it.  There didn’t seem to be much point.  (Secretly, he still had hopes that it would mean a properly long Padawan braid, one day.) 

 _Is ignoring Bruck’s cruelty some sort of endurance test for the rest of us?_   He thought about the extra work, the extra punishments, and how all of his fellow Initiates were expected to endure them without complaint.  Complaint earned them more punishments, and dire warnings about not to fight in the first place.  Which was patently ridiculous, as Obi-Wan had yet to throw his first punch anywhere other than on a training mat, under a teacher’s supervision.

 _Patience,_ the Force seemed to whisper at him.  _Jedi._  

He sighed and ended his shower, drying and dressing.  To his surprise, Yoda was waiting out in the locker area.  His gimer stick was prodding the dent in the locker from Obi-Wan’s head, yet another one he’d managed to decorate this room with.  For a moment his heart flared up with hope.  Maybe they _did_ know.  Maybe the bullying would stop.

Master Yoda’s words killed that hope deader than a fried Mynock.  _Fought with anger, you did,_ he said, and Obi-Wan repressed a groan.  Yoda had seen.  Disappointing his favorite Master was worse than dealing with Windu.

 _Yes, Master,_ he said, bowing low.  _I’m sorry, Master._

Yoda gave him an inscrutable look.  _Sorry for what, I wonder?  For winning, or for your failure?_

He swallowed and offered the ancient Master a strangled smile.  Out of all the Jedi in the Temple, it was easiest to deal with Master Yoda.  The ancient Master made it a point of making sure every Initiate knew that he had not taken a Padawan in over fifty years, and wasn’t about to start now.  There was no stressed worry and wonder, not with him.  _Aren’t they the same thing, Master?_ Obi-Wan asked.

Master Yoda chuckled.  _Perhaps.  Perhaps, young Obi-Wan._   He lifted an ear.  _Allow young Bruck to goad you into anger, you do.   When learn not to give into this anger, find your peace, you will.  Find other things too, hmm?_

Obi-Wan nodded.  It was what Windu had said, also, but sometimes it was easier to hear from the little green Master.  _Yes, Master.  I’ll try, Master,_ he said, and winced.

Yoda cackled, knowing that Obi-Wan had already caught his own slip. _Do, or do not, young Obi-Wan.  Trust in the Force, you should._   He turned and left the room, his tiny gimer stick tapping the stone tile as he went.

 _Next time I’ll just fall on my own training ‘saber.  If I can’t control my temper, I can at least short-circuit it,_ he muttered under his breath.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

When he saw Mace Windu approaching his table in the library, Obi-Wan’s heart plummeted into his stomach and stayed there.  He broke out into a light sweat; Windu never bothered the Initiates during their free evenings unless there was trouble. 

 _Initiate Kenobi,_ Master Windu said, pausing before Obi-Wan’s otherwise empty table. 

 _Master Windu,_ he said in greeting, managing to keep his voice even.  The Master glanced at the texts Obi-Wan had chosen.  Most were concerned with the treatise one of his classes was studying, but since he’d been alone he hadn’t bothered to hide the others.  _Diplomatic Theory Among the Inequitable_ was one; _Humanoid Pressure Points for the Light-hearted Touch to the Killing Blow_ was another.

 _Heavy reading, Obi-Wan,_ Master Windu observed, and there was something in his eyes that Obi-Wan didn’t understand in the slightest.

 _Yes, Master,_ he said.He made a near-hysterical note to himself, thinking that a study of faces, muscle movement, and meaning might have also been a good idea.

 _I’m here to give you your orders personally, Initiate,_ Windu said, suddenly formal.  _You are to report to the ship, the_ Monument _, in the morning at 08:00.  It will take you to Bandomeer, to begin your new assignment in the AgriCorps._

For a moment Obi-Wan merely gaped at the man, stunned into complete immobility.  He gathered his wits, swallowed hard, and spoke.  _No disrespect, Master, but it is still four weeks until I turn thirteen._

_That is true, and usually we do offer leeway until then, but that was before the beating you gave Initiate Chun._

Obi-Wan simply stopped breathing.  Beating?  What in all the hells was Windu even talking about?!  _I know we sparred without supervision, Master,_ he said, trying to tread carefully.  _And it was foolish to do so, but I delivered no beating on Bruck Chun._

Master Windu narrowed his eyes. _He went to the Healers claiming otherwise, Initiate, and had the marks to prove it._

Obi-Wan opened his mouth and then closed it, horrified.  Too late he saw how Bruck had trapped him, and he had walked into it like a thrice-bedamned _idiot._   They had both walked away miserable in body from yesterday evening’s bout, but Obi-Wan had healed what he could with the Force.  He’d had ‘saber practice again to attend in the morning, and hadn’t wanted Master Giett to taunt him about being too sore to defend himself.  The Councilor meant no cruelty, but Obi-Wan hated to disappoint the combat Master about as much as he hated disappointing Master Yoda. 

If he had gone to the Healers himself, there might have been something to contradict Bruck’s story.  Now there was nothing.  What he wanted to shout was _This is unfair!_ and _I’ve done nothing to deserve this!_ but chances for that had passed long ago.  He suddenly doubted that he had _ever_ had such a chance. 

He touched the Force, able to sense the gentle current even in his misery.  _Knight, Jedi Jedi Jedi Jedi,_ it still insisted. 

Instead of what he wanted to say, Obi-Wan merely inclined his head and said what was expected of him before rising to pack.  _Trust in the Force,_ Yoda had said, and he would.  He _would_.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

He panted for breath, grasping his lightsaber hilt in his hand.  Pirates.  Of all the bloody things, pirates!  Bant hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that the Corps was dangerous.  He was expected to go bladeless once formally accepted?  Were they _kidding?_

It was after he’d landed the _Monument_ for repairs that the other Jedi on board, a man who’d been introduced as Master Feemor, approached Obi-Wan.  He wiped his hands on his tunics nervously; the other Jedi hadn’t spoken two words to Obi-Wan during the entire voyage. 

At first, he’d contemplated trying to get to know the young Master, but the last few years had left him nervous about such things.  Then the Togorian pirates had swarmed the ship, and he and Master Feemor had been thrown together, trying to coordinate a defense with a handful of allies and a bunch of Hutt-aligned Offworlders.

 _Damn, you fight pretty well,_ the young Master said with a grin.  _All flash and flair, along with some damned good improvisation.  And you pilot, too!  I wouldn’t know what to do with this behemoth even if someone gave me instructions for a month._  
Obi-Wan blinked in surprise.  _Uhm… er… thank you, Master_ , he said at last, not certain in the slightest what was going on.  He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had told him he was good at something.  Good manners, fortunately, prevailed in the face of confusion.

Feemor was shaking his head.  _Not a bit of fear, excellent skills, strong in the Force.  For shame, child—why did you choose to come out here_? he asked.

 _I didn’t choose it,_ Obi-Wan said, trying to be deferential despite the first pang of hope that made his heart beat faster. _I wasn’t wanted._

 _What a load of bollocks,_ the blond-haired Master had said in response, astounding Obi-Wan. _This is why I avoid the Temple like it’s the gods’ own plague.  They all must’ve gone blind to send someone like you out to the Corps._

Despite having such thoughts himself, sometimes, Obi-Wan was still jaw-dropping _shocked_ to hear such things from a Jedi Master.  _I… I don’t know,_ he said, unable to think of anything else.

Feemor snorted, his blue eyes flashing with amused delight.  _Well, I’m not blind,_ he said, and dropped to one knee before Obi-Wan.  Obi-Wan winced; the man had been injured by the big brute with the ax, and the wound had to be paining him. 

Then Feemor spoke again, and Obi-Wan thought he would pass out.  _Initiate Kenobi, it would be my honor if you would become my Padawan._

The Force got loud in his head.  _Jedi Jedi Jedi,_ it insisted, and even to Obi-Wan it sounded smug.  I _think I would be really, really stupid not to,_ he squeaked.  _I mean, yes!  I’ll be your Padawan, Master Feemor._

Feemor laughed and hugged him.  Obi-Wan squeezed back, shocked and delighted.  Feemor felt good to hug, like a friend he hadn’t even known he was missing. 

 _Good.  We’ll have to wait until we get back to the Temple to do something about this mess you have on your head, though,_ he said, and mussed Obi-Wan’s long, dark auburn hair even further.  _Come on. Let’s see if the Arconans stashed any food around.  I could eat a Bantha._

 _Yes, Master,_ he replied, grinning.  He’d always imagined becoming a Padawan, some dramatic pathos of greeting where the Force would light up, letting both Master and new Padawan know where they were meant to be.

This was better.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

 _Master?_ Obi-Wan whispered, stunned by the emotions he could feel roiling off of the other man, the Offworlder who had confronted them shortly after arriving on Bandomeer.

 _Just relax, Padawan,_ Feemor said, giving the dark-haired man a hard look.  _I’ll handle this._

The dark-haired man laughed, sounding delighted.  It was the jangling, discordant chord in the Force that told Obi-Wan otherwise, and it chilled him. 

 _Oh, Feem,_ he drawled.  _You and I both know that I had you bested with a blade long before I chose to leave the Temple._

 _Chose to become a right arse, you mean,_ Master Feemor retorted. _It’s been a long time since that day._

 _True,_ the dark-haired man said, his smile disappearing.  His eyes, a blue far paler and colder than Feemor’s, seemed to glitter with malice.  _And I’ve learned quite a bit since then._

Obi-Wan watched, enthralled and half-terrified, as the dark-haired man raised a blood-red lightsaber against his Master.  Feemor spat a curse at the sight of the blade, but otherwise showed no sign of fear.  The two men crossed blades, and the duel began in earnest.

He had seen demonstrations before in the Temple, sparring matches between pairs, but nothing like this.  The dark-haired man fought like a feral animal, purposeful, hunting and stalking while his blade parted the air.  Feemor was grounded, like the earth and plants he was so fond of, and his defense showed it, while the other man took to the wind like a demon unleashed.

Obi-Wan couldn’t just stand there and watch.  It was _his_ job to guard his Master’s back, and that thing in black robes was getting far too close to invading Feemor’s guard.  He took one step forward and Feemor’s mental voice rocked him back on his heels. 

_PADAWAN, OBEY!_

Obi-Wan froze, unable to move, the Master’s command verbal and Force-based.  Instead he got to watch, helpless, as Feemor pushed the demon back, trying to get the dark-haired man as far from Obi-Wan as possible.

The demon was faster.

The moment the blood-red blade speared Feemor’s chest, Obi-Wan was free to run, a cry on his lips, his ignited lightsaber in his hand.  _Master!_ he screamed, and was horrified when there was no answer:  nothing in his head, nothing to hear, no resounding echo in his heart.

Obi-Wan stumbled to a halt, feeling shocked tears roll down his face, as the dark-haired man let his Master’s body fall, dead and part of the Force before he hit the ground.  The Dark-Sider turned his attention to Obi-Wan, looking like something straight out of the old legends.  _Not your fight, child,_ the man murmured.  _Not yet, anyway,_ he said, and gestured.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

The feather-light touch was too soothing.  Obi-Wan couldn’t let it win.  He had to stop this, stop this right now, before there were more bodies to bury and dead plants withering on the ground.  There was only so much he could bear, and seeing all of those moments again had broken him anew.

Obi-Wan saw his chance and took it, darting into the memory of his visit to the Southern tower.  He’d gone up onto the top on a bet (he’d won) and been enthralled by the winds that were powerful enough to feel like they were ripping the clothes from his body.  He’d centered in the middle of the platform, anchored himself in place with the Force, and meditated until a white-faced Docent Vant had come and scolded him and almost dragged him down the Tower steps.

The tower was still as high as he remembered, but the winds were absent, because it was a memory he could control.  Obi-Wan stepped to the edge, the Temple District nothing but a blur so far below him…and jumped.

Instead of the fall he anticipated, his left arm was nearly yanked out of its socket when Jinn’s large hand grasped his, catching him.  _No!_ Obi-Wan shouted, struggling against the firm grip.  _Let me go!_

 _Not in all the Sith hells would I do such a thing,_ Jinn retorted angrily.  _Do you think Feemor would have wanted this for you?  After he made sure that Xanatos would not harm you?_

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes and glared up at the older man, who was on his stomach, lying halfway over the tower ledge.  That was fighting dirty.

 _If you got anywhere with_ Diplomatic Theory Among the Inequitable _, you’d know that it’s a perfectly valid tactic to gain someone’s attention,_ Jinn said, grinning in the face of Obi-Wan’s blatant displeasure.

 _What am I supposed to do, then?  Go to the Temple and wait around for someone to feel sorry for me?_ he yelled back.  _You_ saw _what that’s like!  I trusted the Force, I_ believed, _and look where it led!  Look what it did to your Padawan!_

Jinn raised an eyebrow.  _Feemor didn’t die because of the Force; he died because Xanatos is a destructive menace that I should have dealt with years ago.  Hell, I should have slapped him when he mouthed off to Feemor.  It might’ve done some good._   He smiled.  _Besides, look at it this way.  You were taken as a Padawan, and therefore you will remain one.  The Council has to put up with your presence, and take on your interim training_ themselves _, until a Master does speak for you._

 _Great,_ Obi-Wan muttered.  He looked back down at the ground, so far below, and felt desolation well up in his heart.  He was crying again, Sith-dammit.  _I just…he made me feel like I wasn’t alone,_ Obi-Wan whispered.  _For the first time.  And I’ve been alone ever since._

 _Give me your other hand, Padawan,_ Jinn said.

Obi-Wan looked up and reached, grasping the Master’s hand when Jinn extended his own.

 

****    ****    ****    ****

 

He was back in his own body, sobbing like his heart had broken.  Master Jinn was holding him, cradling him in his arms, and Obi-Wan felt like a gangly toy in the big man’s embrace.  “I’m s-s-sorry,” he gasped, trying to get the words out of a tight throat.

“Not your fault,” Jinn murmured, stroking through Obi-Wan’s messy hair with his fingers.  “Not even truly mine, either, but sometimes it’s hard to shake the guilt.”

“N-n-no k-kidding,” Obi-Wan said sourly.  He could feel the vibration beneath his cheek when the Master chuckled, the sound reverberating in the large chest.  “Y…y-you ca-called m-me P-P-Padawan,” he said, curious. 

“Because it’s who you are,” Jinn answered.  “Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, whether Master Windu likes it or not.”

He managed his own rasp of a wrecked laugh.  No, Master Windu probably wouldn’t like it one bit.  He was not surprised by Jinn’s answer, either.  Jinn was like Yoda, in that he’d sworn to never take another Padawan.  There was no hope on his part, not of catching Jinn’s attention _that_ way.  Considering what Xanatos was like, Obi-Wan believed in the big man’s resolve, even if he didn’t quite understand it.  Feemor had been a great Jedi, after all.

Jinn sighed against his hair.  “What a day you’ve put me through, Padawan Kenobi.  Are you ready to go home, now?”

Obi-Wan thought about it, and realized that the answer was, undoubtedly, emphatically, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: depression, anxiety, agoraphobia, attempted suicide


End file.
